The Fear of Being Without a "Honey"
The Fear of Being Without a "Honey"
A Filipino Perspective on Love and Belonging
Even when I walk
through the darkest valley,
I will not be afraid,
for you are close beside me.
Background:
Your rod and your staff
protect and comfort me. Psalm 23:4
In the Philippines, where family ties and community bonds weave the fabric of daily life, the search for a romantic partner—often affectionately called "honey" or "pangga" (love)—is more than a personal quest. It’s a journey shaped by cultural expectations, familial hopes, and the quiet fear of being left unpaired in a society that celebrates togetherness.
This fear of "no honey" resonates deeply, reflecting both universal desires for connection and uniquely Filipino values like pakikisama (harmony) and hiya (shame). Through the stories of two Filipinos, we explore how this fear manifests and how it’s overcome, offering hope and insight for anyone navigating love’s uncertainties.
Maria’s Story:
The Weight of "Matandang Dalaga"
Maria Luzviminda Santos, a 32-year-old teacher from Cebu City, embodies the warmth and resilience of many Filipino women. Raised in a close-knit barangay, Maria—fondly called Malu—grew up surrounded by fiesta celebrations, family gatherings, and tales of her parents’ enduring love. As a public school teacher, she earned respect and stability, yet by her early 30s, she faced a growing unease: the absence of a romantic partner.
At a family reunion, an aunt’s well-meaning question—“Maganda ka naman, bakit wala ka pang asawa?” (You’re beautiful, why don’t you have a husband yet?)—stung like a stray pebble. In Filipino culture, such remarks, though common, carry weight. Labeled a matandang dalaga (old maid), Malu felt the sting of hiya, a cultural sense of shame tied to unmet expectations. Her younger sister’s engagement amplified her fears, prompting questions: Was she too focused on her career? Too selective? Not enough?
The pressure wasn’t just familial. Friends suggested dating apps and church events, while her mother recommended novenas to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things. In the Philippines, where teleseryes (TV dramas) paint love as a path to fulfillment, being single past a certain age can feel like straying from the script. For Malu, the fear of "no honey" was also practical: as a breadwinner supporting her parents and a nephew, she worried about facing life’s burdens alone in a culture where family interdependence is a lifeline.
Malu’s turning point came through a friend’s nudge to join a local volunteer group. At a feeding program, she met Carlo, a kind-hearted widower and fellow teacher. Their connection blossomed over shared laughter and a love for Cebu’s Sinulog festival. When Carlo called her “pangga ko” (my love), Malu hesitated, haunted by years of doubt. But their bond helped her see that the "honey" she sought was as much about self-acceptance as it was about romance. Her story reflects a truth many Filipinos know: love often arrives when you embrace your own worth.
Juan’s Story:
Maria Luzviminda Santos, a 32-year-old teacher from Cebu City, embodies the warmth and resilience of many Filipino women. Raised in a close-knit barangay, Maria—fondly called Malu—grew up surrounded by fiesta celebrations, family gatherings, and tales of her parents’ enduring love. As a public school teacher, she earned respect and stability, yet by her early 30s, she faced a growing unease: the absence of a romantic partner.
At a family reunion, an aunt’s well-meaning question—“Maganda ka naman, bakit wala ka pang asawa?” (You’re beautiful, why don’t you have a husband yet?)—stung like a stray pebble. In Filipino culture, such remarks, though common, carry weight. Labeled a matandang dalaga (old maid), Malu felt the sting of hiya, a cultural sense of shame tied to unmet expectations. Her younger sister’s engagement amplified her fears, prompting questions: Was she too focused on her career? Too selective? Not enough?
The pressure wasn’t just familial. Friends suggested dating apps and church events, while her mother recommended novenas to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things. In the Philippines, where teleseryes (TV dramas) paint love as a path to fulfillment, being single past a certain age can feel like straying from the script. For Malu, the fear of "no honey" was also practical: as a breadwinner supporting her parents and a nephew, she worried about facing life’s burdens alone in a culture where family interdependence is a lifeline.
Malu’s turning point came through a friend’s nudge to join a local volunteer group. At a feeding program, she met Carlo, a kind-hearted widower and fellow teacher. Their connection blossomed over shared laughter and a love for Cebu’s Sinulog festival. When Carlo called her “pangga ko” (my love), Malu hesitated, haunted by years of doubt. But their bond helped her see that the "honey" she sought was as much about self-acceptance as it was about romance. Her story reflects a truth many Filipinos know: love often arrives when you embrace your own worth.
Juan’s Story:
The Burden of the "Haligi ng Tahanan"
Juan Miguel Reyes, or JM, a 34-year-old jeepney driver from Quezon City, offers a male perspective on the same fear. Raised by a single mother, JM learned the value of sipag at tiyaga (hard work and perseverance).
His job as a driver and mechanic brought pride, but it left little room for romance. At a cousin’s wedding, teasing from his uncles—“Kailan ka naman, JM? Hindi ka na bumabata!” (When’s your turn, JM? You’re not getting any younger!)—sparked a quiet unease. As his barkada (friends) paired off, JM felt like the last bachelor standing.
In Filipino culture, men are often seen as the haligi ng tahanan (pillar of the home), expected to provide for a family. Without a partner, JM questioned his purpose. His mother’s longing for apo (grandchildren) added pressure, tying his fear of "no honey" to a deeper fear of failing as a son and a man. Economic realities didn’t help: Manila’s rising costs made JM doubt his ability to court a woman without a car or house, a common concern in a society where provision signals readiness for love.
JM’s life shifted one rainy evening when his jeepney broke down near a sari-sari store. There, he met Liza, a 31-year-old cashier with a knack for fixing things. Their conversations—over engine repairs and shared rides—grew into something more. When JM confessed his fear of not being “enough,” Liza’s response was simple: “Hindi yung jeepney mo ang hinintay ko, ikaw yun” (I wasn’t waiting for your jeepney, I was waiting for you). Their relationship, built on mutual respect, showed JM that being a "pillar" meant showing up authentically, not just materially.
A Cultural Lens on Love and Fear
Maria and JM’s stories highlight how the fear of "no honey" is shaped by Filipino values. For Maria, it’s tied to hiya and the stigma of being a matandang dalaga. For JM, it’s about embodying the haligi ng tahanan and proving his worth. Both face societal scripts—reinforced by teleseryes, family expectations, and community chatter—that equate partnership with success. Yet, their journeys reveal a deeper truth: the fear of being without a partner often stems from a longing for belonging, not just romance.
In the Philippines, love is a communal affair. From matchmaking aunties to church novenas, the search for a "honey" involves family and faith. Economic pressures, like supporting relatives or navigating rising costs, add urgency to the quest. But as Maria and JM discovered, overcoming this fear means redefining what "honey" represents—not just a partner, but a sense of purpose and connection.
Finding Hope Beyond the Fear
For Filipinos and anyone wrestling with the fear of "no honey," these stories offer hope. Love, in its many forms, often arrives unexpectedly—through a volunteer project, a broken jeepney, or a shared laugh. The Filipino belief in kapalaran (fate) reminds us that life’s twists can lead to joy. More importantly, Maria and JM’s journeys show that the truest "honey" is the courage to embrace oneself, whether single or paired.
So, whether you’re waiting for your pangga or redefining your own path, take heart. In the Philippines, where every fiesta celebrates connection, there’s always room for love—of others, and of yourself.
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